


Payment Plan

by Nny



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Attempted Murder, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, assassin!Bucky, but it's nothing personal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:09:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27942047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: "What did I do to you?" he asks rhetorically, batting the knife away with the frying pan, the screech of metal scraping against metal squawking feedback through his aids. He doesn't think he's met the guy before, but it's not unheard of that he'd piss of someone he's never met. It's the kind of thing he'd do.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 28
Kudos: 313
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	Payment Plan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LoonyLoopyLisa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoonyLoopyLisa/gifts).



> Written for LoonyLoopyLisa for the Charity Hawktion. Thanks so much for your generous bid, and I hope you like it! 
> 
> With many thanks to Amy for generously betaing and making this better.

Clint spins his beer around on its base, the last of the liquid inside too warm now to really be worth drinking. Somehow he's not much in the mood for it, tonight, and no matter how much Kate chooses to rag on him about it there's no way he's doing shots. Instead he leans back in the booth, letting the shadows fall across his face so no one can see him scanning the patrons of the bar.

He's not _looking_ for anyone, he's just keeping any eye on what's around, getting a feel for the place. It’s probably a holdover from his old job that’s always going to be there, no matter how long ago he put away his bow.

(Metaphorically, of course.)

Honestly if it weren't for Kate practically dragging him along by his ear, he wouldn't have come here in a million years. Clint likes a comfortable bar - places to sit, things to eat, and music that doesn't get in the way of hearing the people around you. This place has a Theme, an Artistic Direction - some kind of undead New Orleans vibe, maybe? - and the bass is pounding loudly enough that Clint has mostly just grinned and nodded at whoever is flapping their gums his way.

He doesn't want to say that he's too old for this shit, but the fact of the matter is that he'd rather be at home with Lucky, curled up under a blanket and watching Dog Cops on the TV. In fact - fuck it. While the others are at the bar he scoots to the edge of the booth, standing up to let them in and then gesturing at his watch and the door. Kate's too wrapped up in America to do more than wave him off, and Johnny - who is adorable but also _half his age_ \- is trapped in the booth and can't do more than give him a doleful look. Clint fully expects to get a telling off and a number on a post-it from Kate in the morning, but that's tomorrow's problem.

On his way out of the door he knocks shoulders with a skinny guy with the lank fake-dark hair of someone who bases their entire identity off the music they like. The kid ducks his head but Clint’s seen enough of him recently to identify him, and he sticks out his arm to bar his way. 

“Leo,” he says, tired and exasperated, “what the hell are you doing here?” 

Leo glares at him, and Clint’s not exactly sure how he’s the one who ended up earning the entirety of Leo’s ire, except for the fact that he’s less likely to kick the kid’s ass than America. 

“It’s a free country,” Leo whines, and Clint puts a hand on his shoulder and turns him around. 

“And all the rest of it is free real estate,” he says, “but this bar is off limits until you can interact with Katie-Kate without getting the cops involved.” 

“She didn’t have to call -” 

“She didn’t.” Clint gives the guy a quick shove through the open door. “ _I_ did. My range, my rules, and not a one of them allows for stalking my employees.” 

“It wasn’t _stalking_ ,” Leo squawks, his voice breaking on the word. Clint can’t stop himself from sniggering, and if looks could kill he’d be a smoking hole in the sidewalk, but it’ll take a lot more than a runt like Leo to take him out.

“Get the hell out of here,” Clint says, giving him another shove - not enough to tip him over but enough to get him moving. “I see you around here again and we’re gonna have words.” 

“You’ll regret this,” Leo says, low and furious, but when Clint takes one step towards him he breaks and makes a run for it, his heavy boots almost tripping him up. Clint shakes his head, texts America to let her know to keep an eye out, and starts to walk towards home. 

The air outside the bar is bracing, Fall crackling into his lungs, and Clint shoves his hands in his pockets and vaguely regrets not taking a jacket to work this morning. He's pretty sure he considered it, but then he'd seen the time and had booked it out of the door without even - shit. He may have forgotten his keys.

Clint scrubs a hand over his face, his sandpaper-cheeks putting a shave on tonight's schedule so he doesn't have to roll out of bed any sooner than he needs to tomorrow. He could go back into the bar, 'cos Kate always has his spare for Lucky-related reasons, but that'd involve another awkward confrontation with Johnny and Clint's not sure he can deal with the puppy dog eyes. It's probably easier to take advantage of the fact that he still hasn't actually gotten around to fixing his window latch from when it'd been broken by that asshole CIA agent back in March; the fire escape is a ways off the ground, but that's nothing much for a former acrobat.

The alley by his building is full of trash but a hell of a lot less discarded sharps since Clint invested heavily in that clean needle project the community centre had been trying to set up. It's dark and he almost skids over on cardboard that’s wet from the rain this afternoon, taking a second to stack it up by the side of the dumpster so no one will slip over and give themselves a reason to sue his ass. Then he limbers up, takes a run-up, and throws himself at the wall, shoving himself off it and up just far enough to hook his fingers over the lowest rung of the fire escape. It's the work of a moment to haul himself upwards, climbing the first few rungs before finding a foothold. Mrs Bellusova waves at him as he climbs past, which doesn't say much for his stealth.

He hauls open the window when he reaches his floor and tumbles through, landing awkwardly on the pyramid of cans that he keeps meaning to take down to the recycling. It's a hell of a clatter, and Clint just lays there for a second before pushing himself up with a groan.

He's not sure what it is that alerts him - a movement, a change in the air - but he's ducking and rolling before he's even aware that there's someone in the room with him. It's a clumsy movement, all tangled up with beer cans, and the knife catches his shirt and scrapes along his arm.

"Ow!" he yells. "Fuck, what?" Because this isn't the place for stuff like this to happen. His old apartments had had the security for this shit, had had weapons stashed in every corner, perks and perils of the job. _This_ place has been kid-proofed because he'd babysat Simone's kids at the weekend, and his taser and his gun are hanging out with the dust bunnies on top of his bedroom closet. The only people who have broken into this apartment so far are the ones trying to recruit him, and they usually don’t come bearing knives.

Clint kicks out and only lands a glancing blow, and the guy stabs him good in the meat of his upper thigh in turn, but his follow up punch connects and makes the guy stumble back enough to give him room to scoot sideways, rolling over to his front so he can get a running start, heading for the kitchen with its readily available weapons.

The guy's fast, whoever the hell he is. He's after Clint in a second, rounding the island the other way and knocking the knife block out of Clint's reach with a sweep of his arm. Clint wheels backwards and grabs the first thing that comes to hand, hurling the ladle at the guy's head before snatching up a frying pan and blocking his swing.

"Who the fuck are you?" he pants out, but the guy doesn't answer, just goes for an underhanded move that nearly guts Clint before he can twist out of the way, landing wrong on his bleeding leg and having to take a couple of staggering steps to get his balance back.

The guy's not army, 'cos his hair keeps falling in front of his face, the band tying it back doing a piss-poor job. He doesn't move like Hydra and he hasn't got the right shoes for FBI. Could be SHIELD, although Clint had thought he was on pretty good terms with them lately, but whoever he is he's well-trained and _determined_ , and Clint's not sure that he's actually going to win.

"What did I do to you?" he asks rhetorically, batting the knife away with the frying pan, the screech of metal scraping against metal squawking feedback through his aids. He doesn't think he's met the guy before, but it's not unheard of that he'd piss of someone he's never met. It's the kind of thing he'd do.

"Nothing personal," the guy grunts. "I'm just doin' my job."

"Kinda feels personal," Clint snarls, the fire from his leg winding up to coil around his hip, and he almost loses his hold on the frying pan with the force of the guy's blow, his wrist protesting after a hard day on the range. His fingers are prickling pins and needles and he's concerned that he's going to lose his grip. "How much are you getting paid for this?"

The man drops his knife from one hand to the other, getting in an off-hand slice that catches Clint on the tricep, warm blood flowing way too fast for comfort. Clint swears and stumbles backwards, and the guy hesitates for a second, maybe looking for a trap.

"Thirty thousand," he says after a second. "Ten down and twenty on completion." He tosses the knife back to his dominant hand but still doesn't move, eyeing Clint warily.

"Well how about," Clint says carefully, "I pay you fifty thousand to stop?"

The guy’s wrong-footed by that, it’s easy to see. He sways back a couple of steps and scowls, and Clint takes advantage of the moment's stillness to grab a shirt from the pile of clean laundry on one of the bar stools, wrapping it around his arm in the hopes that it'll stem the blood flow just a little. He doesn’t even want to look down at his damned thigh.

“You don’t have that kind of money,” the guy says. His grip on the knife has loosened a little and he firms it up, spinning the knife into a backhand grip that says this guy has experience of wet work, knows how to keep himself clean.

“Sure I do,” Clint says. He leans back against the counter behind him, the room spinning slightly just at the corners of what he can see. “I own this building, for one.”

“Bullshit.”

Clint laughs and slides a little sideways along the counter, catching himself with his good hand. Probably would have broken his face if he’d tried to catch his weight on the other, because even without accounting for the pain his hand is starting to get a little slick with blood.

“It wasn’t one of my better choices,” he says, “but yeah, this place is mine. You wanna see my bank statements? I can show you my –“ He pushes himself upright with the wrong hand, it turns out, and the last thing he sees is the faintly horrified face of the guy who may have actually managed to kill him.

*

Clint wakes up on his couch, which isn’t unusual. The headache’s not exactly unfamiliar, either. What’s less usual is the guy watching him, hunched over on one of the stools at the counter with his elbows resting on his knees. When he sees Clint’s aborted attempt to sit himself up he snags something off the counter, and being held at gunpoint is a habit that Clint had been very willing to leave behind with his old job.

“Sure,” Clint says, slumping back into the couch, secretly grateful that he doesn’t have to lift his head. His left arm is screaming at him even from that small movement and he glances down to find a row of neat sutures in the underside of his arm. “Sure, staying put. I can do that.”

He’s been stripped down to his shirt and boxers, which would be more worrying if someone hadn’t thought to cover him up with the wobbly knitted blanket that usually lives on the computer chair. He lifts the blanket to take a look, and as well as another set of pretty stitches it looks like someone’s given him a perfunctory sponge bath, which has him giving the guy a curious look.

Now that Clint can get a proper look at him he notices a lot of things he hadn’t got the first time around. Like the fact that the long hair that’s escaped from its tie hangs down to a jawline that any superhero would be proud of, and that he’s got muscles stacked on muscles under a Henley that’s way too tight. Like the fact that he’s got uncertainty in his storm-grey eyes and he’s chewing nervously on a beautifully shaped lower lip. Hell, in any other circumstances Clint would be breaking out the terrible pick-up lines, but he’s not sure ‘hey, did you stab me in the thigh, ‘cos I think I’m falling for you’ is going to work for him.

“Hey,” he says instead, and waves like an idiot. He then winces like a bigger one, ‘cos he used the wrong hand.

“You sure are some kinda special,” the guy says, and Clint chooses to go for semantics over tone and grins up at him.

“That’s what they tell me,” he says. The guy rolls his eyes but Clint gets the sense that he’s amused. “So thanks for not killing me, I guess,” Clint continues. “And without even seeing my bank statements.”

It was the wrong thing to say because it gets the gun trained back on him, although the steel-jawed resolute look is a good one on him.

“You’d better have the money,” he says, and his voice is low and gravelly and intent, and if Clint was hurting in fewer parts of his body he’s pretty sure he’d be having some kind of reaction to that. Instead he pushes himself upright a little more, trying not to let out the whimper that the pain in his leg wants to chase out of his mouth, and settles back against the couch cushions carefully. He can feel a cold sweat springing up across his forehead and under his arms and at the small of his back, and he can practically feel himself fading three shades paler.

“Fuck.” The guy pushes himself upright off the stool and rounds the kitchen counter, rummaging in the fridge for some orange juice that Clint has definitely never purchased, filling a tall glass and placing it on the coffee table alongside some pills. Clint _definitely_ whimpers this time, reaching out for them with his good arm. He can’t quite make it, and the guy pushes the coffee table closer with his foot until Clint can snag the chalky tablets and crunch them down, the flood of bitterness making him feel a little like he’s going to throw up.

“Drink the damned juice,” short, dark and violent says, and Clint has to work hard and brace himself carefully to grab the glass, resting it on his chest for a second before taking a sip – and spilling a decent amount of it down his neck. It’s so stupid that _that’s_ what gets him, and he rolls his head back so he can stare up at the ceiling and fume, blinking away the idiot heat that’s trying to fall out of his eyes.

“Jesus Christ.” It’s resigned, long-suffering, but there’s something in the guy’s voice that sounds fond along with it. Or more like there’s a space there reserved for fondness, and Clint’s getting the edges of it in place of whoever it’s usually aimed at.

“Clint, actually,” he says, and his voice is thick, “but I guess you knew that.”

There’s a long pause, and then, reluctantly, “Bucky.”

“Hey Bucky,” Clint says, “you wanna help me up?”

“You’re staying put,” Bucky says, but he comes over to Clint, plucking at the hem of his shirt and grimacing at the stickiness of the juice that’s soaked in there. “I guess now I gotta help get this off you.”

“Hey, you break it, you bought it,” Clint says. “Or – wait, did I buy you?”

“You didn’t _buy_ me,” Bucky practically growls, there’s definitely a warning in there. But his hands are careful as they skim the shirt up Clint’s chest, guiding it over his good arm and his head so he can strip it off without making Clint move anything that’s going to hurt. He balls up the shirt in his hands, and there’s a moment’s pause, his eyes trained on Clint’s chest, before he swallows and goes over to the sink to wet a washcloth.

“I’ve still got no proof that you’re anything but a bum with delusions of grandeur,” Bucky says, after a moment.

“I’m a bum with delusions of grandeur and also a building,” Clint says, and flinches a little when the wet washcloth lands on his chest with a splat. He mops himself up as best he can, following the stickiness over his chest and the line of his throat, and he can’t help but grin just a little when he looks up to catch Bucky staring at him, his eyes kind of wide.

“So how’re you planning to get out of the contract?” Clint asks. “I mean, I’m assuming you’re going to get out of the contract, and not just take my fifty grand and their forty grand and go buy a boat or something, and I should probably not be giving you ideas at this point.”

Bucky shrugs. “I’ll send back his money. Haven’t done this long enough to have a reputation to ruin.”

“And if he comes after you?”

Bucky smiles then, a slow and dangerous thing that brushes up against Clint’s libido like a tiger playing at kitty-cat. “He can try.”

Clint has to force his brain back on track to work out his next question, frowning as he makes his way through the lust-static, because it’s been a long damned time since he’s had it so bad.

“And how’re we going to be subtle about me giving you money?” he eventually asks. “If I just pay fifty grand into your bank account there are going to be questions.”

“You’re new at this, huh?” Bucky says, with a rueful grin, and Clint has to work not to shrug and set off all the pain again that’s just now starting to quiet down.

“All my criminality was strictly small-scale,” he says. “Give me thirty seconds and some spandex and I’ll disappear with your wallet, but more than a couple hundred bucks and you’re on your own.”

There’s a pause, then. A minute or so of awkward silence while Bucky examines his face, clearly looking for something that Clint doesn’t know how to give. He tries his best to look honest and trustworthy, but – well he _is_ , mostly, only he’s never been much good at showing it, so who in the hell knows what’s going on with his face. Eventually Bucky looks away, scratching at his stubble – loud in the quiet that’s built up between them – before he softly swears.

“Medical bills,” he says quietly, like he’s forcing out an admission, and Clint blinks at him without finding any words.

“Medical bills.”

“You can pay ‘em for me.”

“You have _fifty thousand dollars_ worth of –“

“Sure,” Bucky says, cutting across him, and he’s not meeting Clint’s eyes. The guy’s a lousy liar, and there’s something kind of charming about it. “Who the hell can get insurance in this day and age, right?”

“Hitmen don’t get medical?”

Bucky opens his mouth like he’s going to protest, then visibly deflates. It looks a lot to Clint like this isn’t his career of first choice, and he’s honestly feeling better about paying the guy if he’s been pushed into this by desperation rather than inclination.

“And the army treats vets like shit,” Bucky says eventually, and Clint solemnly holds up a fist that Bucky stares at for a moment before rolling his eyes and walking over to bump it gently.

It takes them a while to get things sorted. Multiple calls through to insurance companies, and Clint’s bank, and possibly a lawyer at some point, Clint loses track. He’s aching at the end of it and his voice is a little hoarse; more than anything he’s curious about who the hell Steve Rogers is, and why Bucky’s going to these lengths to help him out. There’s a possibility that Steve is his dad, or a favourite uncle, but Clint feels like the way Bucky talks about him it’s got to be a love thing, right? Clint would likely have done all this for Bobbi, when he was in the first flush of pink-tinged love, and aside from that only Natasha but he’s not sure other people go as hard for the platonic life partner thing as him. And the way Bucky looks… Clint’s never been that lucky, so there’s no way he could possibly be single, or interested. No, with Clint’s luck, Bucky has to be in the kind of ride or die love that – well, leads you to becoming a hired assassin, apparently, just to keep the object of your affections out of debt.

He scrubs at his face with both hands, entirely failing to swallow down a yawn.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Bucky says, and there’s a plethora of responses ready and waiting that Clint reluctantly swallows back down. Instead he just looks at Bucky and then at the stairs and back again, one eyebrow raised.

“What?” Bucky asks, and there’s something mischievous in his grin. “You want me to carry you?”

“I’d like to see you try.”

It almost gets to that point. Clint’s pale and sweating again by the time they reach the top of the stairs, and Bucky has to support him when he wobbles over the bathroom to throw up. He’s a shaking mess when he collapses onto the bed, and he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to do anything for himself tomorrow – he’ll likely have to call Kate, which will end up with hospital and police reports and all of those uncomfortable things.

He’s not expecting Bucky to strip off his own jeans and – once he’s rolled Clint over enough to get the blanket out from underneath him, and gone over to turn off the light – make like he’s going to get into the bed.

“What?”

Bucky gives him a deadpan look.

“You expected me to leave you to fend for yourself?”

“I mean,” Clint says around another yawn, “five minutes ago you were trying to kill me.”

Bucky waves that off, like it’s been years and change, like it’s all water under the bridge.

“How about we both keep our hands to ourselves,” he says, “and try to get some sleep?”

“Your virtue’s safe with me,” Clint mumbles, half into the pillow. “Probably haven’t got enough blood left in me to get hard, even if I wanted to.” He’s expecting a snort, undignified laughter, so the quiet apology takes him by surprise.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, more clearly this time, and there’s no doubting the regret in his tone. Clint’s almost grateful that he doesn’t have to see the expression on his face. “I just didn’t see another way out, and I knew –“ He swallows, hard. “I knew it was something I could do.”

“I get it,” Clint says, and it’s heavy in the quiet room, in the small space between them. It seems heavy enough to distort that space, create some kind of gravitational pull, and it’s clear he’s not the only one that feels it when Bucky eases a little closer, although not close enough for them to touch.

There’s silence between them for a time. Clint has given up enough trust tonight, and one night sleeping in his aids isn’t going to kill him; he can hear when their breathing syncs up, and how that means that Bucky can’t sleep too.

“So spandex, huh?” Bucky asks eventually, amusement softening the edges of his tone in the darkness.

“Fuck off,” Clint says, but there’s no hiding his laugh.

“No chance, I’m staying until there’s proof the payment’s gone through,” Bucky answers back, but that doesn’t do anything to explain how he moves forward just enough that Clint can feel the heat from his skin.

*

It’s just over a week later and Clint is arguing with the guy at the bodega again, ‘cos he keeps selling Mrs Rodriguez - who can barely see any more - expired cartons of milk.

Clint has come down for frozen pizza and a six pack of shitty beer because he probably can't afford therapy anymore and comfort food is practically as good. He’s still limping a little, when he allows himself, but the slices Bucky had stitched up in his arm and in his thigh have healed cleanly, no sign of infection. He isn't even sure if they are going to wind up being particularly memorable scars, lost amongst the lines that map out his life on his skin, and something about that seems a little unfair.

Bucky had disappeared without trace on the third day, just as soon as Clint had been properly mobile again; he'd still had to use the furniture to haul himself around his apartment, sure, and even now he struggles with the stairs, but he can do just about everything for himself that a body needs.

"See you around, then," he'd said when Bucky had left. Hadn't been able to help himself.

Bucky had hesitated in the doorway for a second, cast a glance back at Clint with his lower lip bitten between his teeth, like there were words in there that he didn't trust himself to say. Clint had stared back at him mutely, and the words _he_ hadn't said have been chasing themselves around his head all the nights since.

At least he's found something productive to do with his bad mood.

“Yeah, well maybe I’ll call the FDA on you, huh, how d’you like that?” Clint yells, then ducks the egg that comes flying out after him.

“You want me to kill him for you?” a weirdly familiar voice asks, and Clint almost trips himself over as he spins around, knees oddly weak.

Bucky looks a hell of a lot different now. He’d eased up a little over the days he’d stayed with Clint, the weight gradually lifting away from his shoulders, but grinning in plaid and denim and with his hair tied back in a scruffy bun, the guy is the kind of stunning that looks out of place on a cracked sidewalk in Bed-Stuy.

He looks different around the edges of himself too, though. Like he's taken a deep breath and got a couple of nights of decent sleep. The skin under his eyes is practically skin coloured, and his stubble looks more like an aesthetic choice than like the inevitable result of exhaustion born from desperation.

Clint guesses that Steve is gonna be okay.

“What?” Clint asks, taken aback, and his brain function gives up completely when Bucky slowly smiles. Holy shit, he’s stunning. Clint had already worked that out, but he'd half-hoped it had been gratitude and desperate relief, not an objective reality that is gonna stick with him and ruin him for everyone else.

It’s probably a sign he needs to call Natasha, though. They've had long talks about his self-destructive taste in men.

“One murder, bought and paid for,” Bucky says. “Want it to be him?”

“No, I -” what the fuck. What the _fuck_. “No, I just wanted you to stop killing me, I didn’t - I don’t have anybody I want you to kill!”

“Okay,” Bucky shrugs, shoves his hands in his back pockets, rocks back on his heels. “Guess I’ll just keep comin’ around until you do.”

"Well that's not an inducement for me to pick someone," Clint says, like an idiot, and he can feel himself blushing right up to the roots of his hair. He turns on his heel, shifts his weight wrong onto his bad leg, shakes off the hand that automatically ghosts under his elbow in case he needs it.

There is a shadow at his shoulder, though, when he starts limping back up the street towards his building. Would've been useless trying to outrun him, and never mind that a word or two would likely make him go away.

When he darts a look sideways, Bucky still has a smile tucked into the corner of his mouth like a secret.

Clint nestles the paper bag of groceries into the crook of his arm so he can curve his hand around the keypad, hide the access code from Bucky's amused eyes, but he doesn't do anything to prevent the guy from following him into the building, snagging the groceries from him and letting Clint take the lead up the stairs.

There’s the rustle of paper from behind him, and then Bucky snorts.

"Maybe I ought to stick around and teach you how to cook something with an actual vitamin in it," he says, sounding amused, but Clint doesn't turn around to see if he can collect another smile, just keeps trudging up the stairs and mentally counting down to the point he’s gonna have to give in and use the stair rail to haul himself up the last few steps. Before he has to, though, Bucky's hand cups his elbow and this time Clint lets himself lean into it, letting Bucky take some of his weight.

"I can cook," he belatedly protests. "I choose not to."

"If you've used that frying pan since I left -" Bucky starts, and Clint can't choke back the laugh that bubbles out of him.

"I'm not cooking with that thing again," he says, "not now I know I need it to fight off goddamn assassins."

Bucky doesn't laugh, instead darting around in front of Clint, a step above him so their eyes are level. He scans Clint's face, a crease between his eyebrows.

"You haven't needed to, right?"

Clint licks his lips, his eyes dropping to Bucky's mouth accidentally before he snaps them back up to meet his concerned gaze.

"Worried I've been cheating on you with other killers?" Clint asks, noting how Bucky's face flinches into a scowl at the epithet.

"Worried about your dumb ass," Bucky says, "though god knows why." He hauls the paper bag up a little and turns around, stomping up the stairs ahead of Clint, not adjusting his pace this time so he has to wait a while for Clint to reach him and unlock the door.

With Bucky dealing with the groceries, Clint’s free to limp over to the couch and carefully lower himself onto it, holding the swear words that want to emerge behind gritted teeth. He can't hold back the grateful breath when he has settled, though, and the freezer door closes with a heavy slam.

A couple moments later there’s a glass of water sweating on the coffee table, the painkillers he has been trying to cut down on placed next to them.

"I'd rather have a beer," he says to Bucky's back.

"I have no clue why he's bothering to pay people to kill you," Bucky says, "when you're working so goddamn hard on it yourself." He sits himself on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, almost impossible to see from where Clint’s sprawled out on the couch. Clint hooks an arm over the back so he can haul himself up and glare.

"I don't know who made you boss of my life," he says, and Bucky's scowl wavers a little.

"It's tradition, right?" he says. "You save someone's life and you're responsible for them."

"You didn't save my life, you just refrained from killing me," Clint argues. "That is not the same thing."

“You want me to go?” Bucky asks, and there’s a sardonic tone there that Clint think maybe runs through his bones, but it sounds like a genuine question just the same.

“Won’t your boyfriend be wondering where you are?” Clint asks, sourness coiling in his belly. 

“Don’t have a boyfriend,” Bucky says, “although I could maybe be persuaded.” 

It takes a second for that to sink in, to spread through him and warm him right up. 

Clint examines Bucky for a moment, the way he’s shifting his weight as the silence stretches out, the way his hands are rammed deep into his pockets but his shoulders are somehow still hunched. Bucky’s still scowling – seems like he’s got a resting bitch face that rivals Fury’s – but the lines of him give away what he wants Clint to say.

“Pepperoni?”

“What?”

Clint reaches over to the coffee table to snag the takeout menu that’s lying there, pulls the remote out from beside the couch cushions and flicks on the TV.

“Well if I’m gonna catch you up on Dog Cops we’re gonna need food,” he says, and grins at the way Bucky’s eye roll moves his whole head and leaves his shoulders more relaxed.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Bucky says, even as he’s rounding the couch to take a seat closer to Clint than he in any way needs to, “ _I_ want me to go.”

The soft flannel of Bucky’s shirt brushes against Clint’s arm and he bites his lip at the way that shivers into his gut, grinning down at the remote as he scrolls to the episode he wants.

Not much attention is spared for the TV, it turns out. An impassioned defence of the show from Clint sparks a discussion on ‘superior’ television, segues into an argument about dogs versus cats that Natasha would absolutely be siding with Bucky on, and by the time the knock on the door comes they’re bickering like they’ve known each other years.

“…could not be more wrong,” Clint says, as he limps – at his insistence – to the front door, Bucky kneeling on the couch and hanging over the back so they don’t have to stop disagreeing. Clint grabs his wallet out of his jacket pocket, turning to continue speaking as he unlocks the door. “Dogs are plenty intelligent, and saying that following orders is a _lack_ of –“

Bucky’s face changes as the door swings open, his mouth dropping open.

“Clint, _down!”_

Clint drops like he’s been shot, so the _actual_ shot goes over his head, burying itself in the wall above the TV. Before Clint can move Bucky has hurdled over the back of the couch, tackling the pizza delivery guy out into the hall and slamming his hand back against the wall until the gun goes skittering down the hallway. Clint shuffles himself around, cursing his bum leg, and manages to sit up enough to get a decent look at the pizza guy’s face.

“ _Leo?”_

“Who the hell is Leo?” Bucky asks, hands fisted into the garish uniform shirt. “Aside from the guy who paid me to kill you.” 

“He dated my friend Kate for a while until she dumped him for being a loser.”

“Until you _stole her_ –“ Leo starts, before Bucky slaps a hand over his mouth hard enough to knock his head back against the wall.

“People ain’t property,” Bucky tells him seriously, his voice gravelly and low and the kind of dangerous that sends a thrill up Clint’s spine, even past the disgust at the possibility of his dating Kate. She’s amazing, he’s not denying that, she’s just also basically in kindergarten.

“ _You_ tried to have me killed?” Clint asks, incredulous, probably unflatteringly so. Leo’s response is long and vitriolic and entirely muffled by Bucky’s hand. 

“What do you want to do with –“ Bucky starts, and cuts himself off as he snatches the duct tape Clint’s tossed at him out of the air.

“I know some people who’ll know what to do with him,” Clint says.

Bucky tapes the guy’s wrists together and slaps some duct tape over his mouth before dragging him into Clint’s apartment and thoroughly taping him to one of Clint’s bar stools. It’s a display of efficiency that is seriously doing it for Clint, and he just leans back on his elbows and watches, grinning up at Bucky when he crosses back over to him and biting his lip.

“The _pizza guy_ hired me to kill you?” Bucky’s half-incredulous, half-pissed, and Clint snorts out an inelegant laugh.

“If it’s any consolation,” he says, “you never would’ve got that other twenty grand. There’s no way he could’ve afforded that, or anyone else to replace you for that matter, hence his piss-poor effort with the gun. You made the right choices.”

Bucky reaches down and takes Clint’s hands, carefully levering Clint to his feet in a way that doesn’t put any unnecessary strain on his knee – in a way that leaves them very close together, Clint staring down into Bucky’s pretty gray eyes.

“You know what,” Bucky says, his callused fingers wrapped firmly against Clint’s skin, “I never doubted that for a second.” 

“Well I paid your buddy’s bills, I guess.” His tone is self-deprecating, he can’t help it, and Bucky looks up at him thoughtfully.

“You know I’m gonna find a way to pay you back,” he says, soft and intent. “Just might take a little time.”

“I don’t mind that if you don’t,” Clint answers, and revels in the grin he gets in response.

“So I guess we’ve only got one other debt left to sort out,” Clint says softly into the warm space between them. “This time I do actually owe you my life.”

Without breaking eye contact, Bucky unlaces their hands, and there’s a moment’s sick swoop of Clint’s stomach before Bucky’s warm hand comes to rest in the small of his back, staying there for a second before exerting a gentle pressure so Clint has to inch forward until there’s no space between them at all.

“Well, what’re you doing this Saturday night?” Bucky asks, his breath warm against Clint’s mouth, his own mouth curling into the kind of smile that makes promises Clint is gonna make sure are kept. “I’ll let you pay in instalments.”


End file.
